Lola had a warped sense of humor. Maybe she thought telling me she had mono was some kind of hilarious prank.
It was almost April Fool’s Day. Perhaps she was just testing out a joke. I typed back a quick response.
Me: Not funny.
Lola: Tell me about it. I feel like death.
Me: Lola, stop! You don’t have mono.
Lola: Except that I do. Did you know it’s called the kissing virus?
Me: Gross!!!
Lola: Says the girl who’s never been kissed.
Lola: PS - Kissing Mark Jennings was anything but gross.
Me: Well I hope it was worth it!
Lola: It wasn’t. I’m really sorry, Layne. I’m devastated I won’t be able to perform with you.
Me: With me? Um, no. I’m dropping out of the competition.
Lola: You can’t! Your songs are amazing!
Me: Too bad you’re the only one who can sing them.
Lola: Not true. You should sing them.
Me: I’m the songwriter, you’re the singer. That’s the deal.
Lola: Fine, then find another singer. Don’t drop out, Layne. This is your dream.
“I thought it was our dream,” I muttered to myself as I shoved my phone in my backpack.
The warning bell rang, and students shuffled around me, rushing to their next class. It’s what I should be doing too, but for some reason I couldn’t convince my feet to move. The realization that my dream was dying was still setting in and it made it impossible to focus on even the simplest things, like putting one foot in front of the other.
I sucked in a panicky breath as I pushed my glasses back up my nose. This could not be happening. It just couldn’t. Because if Lola really had mono, then the last few months of hard work was a complete waste. Without Lola I’d have to drop out of the competition.
My heart fell, but it didn’t quite hit rock bottom. Perhaps it was because I’d never truly thought I could win. I wasn’t betting against us. Lola was incredible. I thought she had a great chance of winning the singing category, and I knew her voice would give my songwriting an edge, but I’d never truly let myself fantasize about winning the Northeast Regional Scholarship for the Dramatic Arts—or the Diva Scholarship, as we called it.
Why should I? The world had pretty much decided I wasn’t winner material. And Northwood High reminded me of that on a daily basis. But that’s what happened when you were a band geek in a sea of athletes.
I wasn’t sad about it. I loved music. It was my life. But in high school, unless you could somehow pull off the rocker look, which I most definitely could not thanks to my glasses and thrift store budget, that pretty much left band geek as my only option.
I looked down. My red Converse sneakers were dull, just like the rest of my outfit, from my shoes all the way to my boring brown hair.
“Move it,” someone growled while knocking into me as I stood frozen in the hall.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, tears instantly welling in my eyes as I tried to wrap my head around the next four weeks of high school without my best friend.
Lola was sunshine. I was a shadow. But without her . . . I was just plain invisible.
Chapter Two
Wyatt
“I’m sorry, can I go back to class now?” I asked.
“If I could trust you to attend class, I would’ve left you there,” my mother replied astutely.
She continued to pour over the papers on her desk like they were the most important things in the world. What a joke. Like anyone at this school actually cared about whatever fundraiser she was organizing next. I slumped lower in the cushy office chair and let my head drop back, staring up at the dismal ceiling tiles. I exhaled dramatically, not caring one bit that I was behaving like a petulant child. It’s what she expected.
“Wyatt, I know you’re disappointed about baseball—”
That snapped me out of my melancholy. “Disappointed!” I yelled. “Disappointed?” I glared at my mother, who for once was meeting my eyes. “Disappointed is when the grocery store is out of your favorite ice cream flavor, or the movie you want to see is sold out. Disappointed doesn’t even begin to express my feelings about having my last high school baseball season stolen from me.”
“Darling, I understand your anger.”
“Do you, Mum? I mean, do you really?”
“Of course. But accidents happen, Wyatt. There’s no one to blame here.”
I glared at my ankle boot, anger simmering in my veins. My mother had no idea what this